Sailing Alone
by Harriet Wilde
Summary: An Officer Without His Lady


Sailing Alone by Harriet Wilde  
  
Chief Officer Henry Tingle Wilde walked down the Forward Grand Staircase, cap held in one arm in the presence of so many ladies. By any standard, Henry Wilde was a big man: a good six foot one in height, broad- shouldered and powerfully built, his sister loved to say that he looked just like an officer should.  
  
My word, an officer! It seemed only yesterday that he had been a young junior officer, just started working for White Star. He'd actually received his first command, OCEANIC, another of White Star's crack liners serving the North Atlantic route from Southampton to New York and back. He'd been all set to settle in aboard his first Lady, but then OCEANIC's coal had been transferred to TITANIC to enable her to make her maiden voyage as scheduled.  
  
Not only OCEANIC's coal had been transferred; he, too, had been transferred to TITANIC. Captain Smith generally took the Chief Officer of his previous ship with him in order to have an experienced "Chief" on the new ship's maiden voyage, and he had carried this custom with him to the new liner.  
  
Wilde smiled as a woman in a suit of deep green velvet swept by, her tiny waist accentuated by the wide sash worn over the coat, an enormous green velvet hat loaded with ostrich plumes, and he breathed in the scent of her perfume. That was one of the best parts of being a senior officer: getting to see the ladies in their Parisian frocks, always so fetching.  
  
Now, TITANIC's Chief Officer sighed. It had been great fun until December of 1910, when he'd lost his dear wife, Mary Catherine, and their two youngest children—twin boys—to what the doctor had termed "complications of childbirth". Since then, much of the happiness and pleasure in sailing ships had gone from  
  
his life.  
  
Even now, fourteen months later, the wound was not healing; not really. How did one get over losing his—his soul mate? Yes, that was the word he wanted. How was he to do that? How to get over the loss of a woman who'd been his all-in-all, a woman who seemed able to look into his very soul and know instinctively what he needed?  
  
It had been a true love-match, Mary Catherine being a year older than him. Well, how could he have kept from falling in love with the most beautiful woman in the world? There she'd been, so fine in a red velvet frock, her hair piled atop her head in curls, the scent of roses in the air, and him standing there, unable to do anything except to take in the sight of her, his heart pounding in his chest.  
  
She'd been so happy during that final pregnancy, so content—and the news that she was carrying twins had made her even happier. Yes, she'd been happy; healthy as well. True, she'd seemed much more tired than usual, but that happened when a woman was with child. He'd never thought that things would go so horribly wrong.  
  
When she'd died on Christmas Eve of 1910, his world had been torn apart, making him feel as if he was falling into some bottomless pit with no hope of rescue. She'd left four little ones behind, with only him to be both father and mother. He'd pulled himself together and gone right back to sea in order to provide for them. It helped that officers were supposed to be reserved, quiet sorts and he was able to carry on doing what he'd done for almost a quarter-century before—help to sail ships.  
  
It was late at night, alone in his cabin with his memories that were the worst times for him. More than once he'd awakened to find he'd been crying in his sleep. That part had passed, thank God; he only wept when visiting her grave as he'd done a few days before.  
  
Reaching the D-Deck landing, he looked up to see a young lady in a white hobble suit with navy blue pinstripes, navy blue lapels and tie the latter secured with a dainty amethyst tie tack, the collar of her blouse folded down, timed with lace. One daintily gloved hand clasped the handle of a dark blue flowered parasol, the hand of the opposite hand resting on the forearm of an equally fashionable gentleman. Such a nice hat, a deep purple with an enormous layered bow.  
  
Behind them walked a woman who appeared to be in perhaps her mid forties, dressed in a suit of dark pea-green velvet, a hat of multicolored brocade atop her bright red hair. Wilde, who'd learned to size up people fairly well, thought that this was not a warm-hearted woman. Not with those sharp eyes and haughty demeanor, which looked around her appraisingly, just looking for something to find fault with.  
  
Wilde looked at the young lady, obviously she was the woman's daughter, the family resemblance was clear. It was also clear that she was not happy to be here, with the man on whose arm her hand rested.  
  
These were the sorts of people that he now served; only the wealthiest of the wealthy traveled First Class aboard White Star's transatlantic liners. The crème de la crème as one of his friends liked to say. Yes, this lot was wealthy; everything about the three of them said that. Born to a life of wealth and privilege, they expected—and got—nothing but the best.  
  
Well, then, he'd give nothing but his best to TITANIC. 


End file.
